


(im)materializations

by Lapifors



Series: (im)perfect realities [1]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Denial of Feelings, Dreams vs. Reality, Experimental Style, Fantasizing, Implied Sexual Content, Lowercase, M/M, Self-Hatred
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-18
Updated: 2021-02-18
Packaged: 2021-03-13 11:27:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,406
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29525706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lapifors/pseuds/Lapifors
Summary: thanks tocloudynebulafor editing as well as co-writing some parts of the text, and formegawallflowerfor beta reading. hope you all enjoy.
Relationships: Hatake Kakashi/Maito Gai | Might Guy, Minor or Background Relationship(s), Sarutobi Asuma/Yuuhi Kurenai
Series: (im)perfect realities [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2191815
Comments: 12
Kudos: 32





	(im)materializations

**Author's Note:**

> thanks to [cloudynebula](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cloudynebula) for editing as well as co-writing some parts of the text, and for [megawallflower](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MegaWallflower) for beta reading. hope you all enjoy.

the days in july are sweltering, even in the village hidden in the leaves. the green around konoha starts to darken from the sun’s merciless heat, as if they too are sweating. when the sun sets, the night doesn’t drop in temperature, and shinobi finishing off a long summer’s day find relative shelter from the heat in the village’s numerous late-night bars, all boasting some type of air conditioning. on the corner of market street is _shushin,_ an izakaya bar where legends say the owner has been around since konoha’s founding (bullshit). an established place where ninja can relax, wipe their bloodstained hands, and pretend they’re no different from the average civilian out drinking with their coworkers.

the bar interior is tiny, everything before reconstruction in the third shinobi war was tiny, but that doesn’t impede its popularity. it’s packed, and orders of grilled yakitori steam above the heads of cackling kunoichi, _shushin_ ’s attendants hurrying to fulfil the orders of their hungry (and very drunk) customers. a table shakes from someone slamming a fist onto its surface in hysterical reaction, drops of liquid jitter before seeping down into the wood. tobacco smoke and the sour tang of alcohol fog the air, and the song playing from a radio is indistinguishable from the droning chatter of the patrons. a bare fingertip circles around the edge of a clear crystal shot glass, arrhythmic and slow compared to the noise surrounding him. kakashi rarely comes out to jounin gatherings unless strong-armed into them, and spends them mindlessly bored if _not_ left to his own devices.

asuma puffs out his cigarette, and gestures around for an attendant. kurenai and gai are (notably) absent tonight, and despite the inclusion of aoba and raidou, and other ninja kakashi hasn't had the politeness to remember, the raucous meetup is dull like the low-tinted bulbs buzzing over their heads of the izakaya bar.

hands skilled in knives and brass knuckles crack open another bottle of cheap umeshu. the tart-sweet amber liquid fills neatly into wet shot glasses, topping them up to the brim but never spilling over. kakashi is content in watching the group, he occasionally inbibes, and sugary plum wine isn't what he normally indulges in. the others throw back their heads and swallow, asuma expertly keeping his cigarette in his mouth.

another round starts replenishing the cups. well, if they're busy, he might as well make the most of his time. kakashi reclines into his chair and reaches for his book in his back pocket, pulling it out to the accompaniment of a boozy chuckle.

"you still into those?" it's one of the nameless shinobi at their table asking, his addressing finger crooked like his teeth. the group, moonshined by dizzy alcohol, eagerly prey on an easy topic to circle around.

"yeah, how long has it been? icha's got to be like... what?" aoba cradles his chin, or tries to. the man's sunglasses are askew as he smacks an uncoordinated hand over his nose.

asuma laughs softly and kakashi raises an eyebrow hidden under his headband. it's one of the man's shogi chuckles. a rumbling one in the back of his throat, coupled with a smirk signaling the start of his tactician's gambit.

"didn't that book come out when we were teenagers? that one you've got has to be a decade old. don't you want to change it up, kakashi?" asuma queries, cigarette brightening up as he takes a drag.

the reactive twitch at the corner of kakashi's lips would betray his slight annoyance if it isn't for the mask smoothing everything into an abstract, unknowable expression. kakashi can tell where asuma is heading. but he'll cut the other shinobi off.

"oh? do you have recommendations, asuma? that's surprising. you always acted like you didn't care for them... does kurenai know?"

kakashi swings first with an obvious name drop as a warning shot. asuma gapes at kakashi as if he has just lost his strategic piece. his two drunk eyes snap back into focus as the company of jounin bursts into amused hollers.

"pah, what does she have to do with this? leave her alone," asuma mumbles before clearing his throat and leaning forward in his seat. kakashi snorts quietly. so asuma hasn't had enough; kakashi notes how the man squares up his shoulders.

"aren't you bored of jerking off to those fictional characters?" asuma bluntly says. "don't you want something real?"

kakashi is caught off guard and his single stupefied eye must have been a hilarious sight because the group just tears themselves open with laughter. it's an open secret that the elusive copy ninja is both a shameless fan of the books and also notoriously reclusive with his personal relationships. there's backslapping and pointing between the jounin but kakashi withstands their guffaw, because it's not a big issue. he supposes he should be more scandalized by it, and in fact if it were anyone else raising the issue, kakashi might be. it's just that asuma is way easy to counter.

"maa, asuma... this is quite a roundabout way to come onto me. i'll give you points for creativity, though." kakashi lands the killing blow.

asuma throws up his hands, defeated and red-faced with ample noises of disdain. aoba snorts beer out of his nose. raidou snickers and all of his scars seem to smile along with his curved, hunched back. there are pats on asuma's shoulders, promises that kurenai will never know, and the man's own blushing face gleams orange under warm light.

not one to lose gracefully, the bearded man throws out a last remark, "so you're really telling me those books are enough for you? you've never had _any_ interest in a real person?"

and that hits. hits in kakashi's head, the words kunai-sharp as they scratch the surface of something kakashi has tucked away. he hisses, air whistle through his teeth from a sudden breach of memory. fortunately the group is too busy ribbing asuma to notice kakashi. within the bunch, aoba sways, nearly teetering over examining the ruddy-cheeked jounin, whose cigarette has finally fallen to the table.

"hold up, wait. now i really think you might have something for kakashi." aoba, in inelegant inebriated slur, directs his accusation to asuma, who slaps his own face and drags it down and off his cropped beard.

"i don't." asuma whines, uncharacteristically desperate to get anyone on his side.

aoba eyes raidou who eyes one of the nameless shinobi and this chain goes on until there's hesitant eyes glancing over to parse kakashi's blank face. there's an unsaid hum in the air, and hm, now that it's been stated, maybe kakashi’s joke has struck a chord, maybe asuma is protesting a little too m—

"i don't!" asuma shouts.

"oh? 'don't' what?" says none other than kurenai, approaching their table.

the men straighten up and kakashi flashes a palm in a casual wave. asuma can barely make out her name. it's fumbled among his gasps.

"well..." kakashi starts but asuma interrupts.

"kurenai, where's gai?" asuma's quick question holds back kakashi's tongue. perhaps kurenai's sudden appearance sobered up the man’s wit.

"gai's not joining us. he has a mission with his team starting early tomorrow morning. speaking of which, we do too, asuma." kurenai reminds him but she's already sliding into the booth as if she was a member since the start. her manicured hand reaches over to swipe a sake bottle to read the label. "this is what you're drinking? someone get me a beer instead."

it's another open secret that kurenai loves to drink, and she can outdrink anyone she pleases. some of the other ninja lift up their hands to flag a waitress, reckless second wind coming back, lifting the sails of their spirits to encourage more foolish behavior.

but kakashi has enough for the night. tells them this is it. he bids them a simple farewell and asuma, who usually tries to pressure him into staying, is presently far too agreeable in sending him off, making kakashi smirk as he exits the bar.

it's a distinct change in environment. the night is cool blue, and the streetlamps heave rays of ice white down onto him, blinding compared to the pumpkin-colored glow inside the izakaya bar. so sharp is the light's glare that kakashi has to squint before he performs a body flicker, reappearing before his apartment door and standing in the tranquilized dark.

after cleaning up, he lies in his twin bed with a worn copy of _paradise_ in hand. he finishes through a passage (a favorite, one practically tattooed to the back of his eyelids) and rests the book down. rubbing at his strained eye, kakashi finally feels exhausted. the little desk clock ticks and catches his attention. it's late. one day he'll find a way to overcome his insomnia with something other than pulp fiction. his thumb brushes against the soft, old page. at last kakashi lets the darkness wash over him and in that pitch blackness, sleep doesn't wander his way.

the day replays in his mind. a mission. standard b-rank. passing through woodland and wondering if naruto was doing well on his journey. sakura with her studies. sasuke.

kakashi opens his eye and checks the time. only an hour elapsed, the arms of the clock fan out at 1:50 am.

the group probably cleared out of that bar by now. aoba would stagger around, if not for raidou helping him. kakashi wonders if anyone won't be able to get home tonight. maybe asuma. he was already in a stupor by the time kakashi left. luckily, kurenai came around… she can deadlift him if she needs to. kurenai lugging asuma home is a snort-inducing picture, and then the novelty of that image fades into dismal hues of purple-black, the colors of kakashi's ceiling put through the filter of a late and heavy night.

asuma's words from before tingles in the back of his spine, and kakashi releases a sardonic chuckle into the void. hah, who does asuma think he is talking to? kakashi isn't oblivious, isn't dumb to how people react when they see him. the eyes watching, appraising. the mouths parting, complimenting. the minds whirring, fantasizing.

kakashi's gone through many misguided confessions. and all of them have always been — hm, how to place it outside of idiocy — terrible idolatry.

so then. what is real?

yeah, there are those who may have a passing interest in kakashi, but it fizzles out like carbonation when he rejects them, when they realize the man they envisioned behind the mask is merely their own illusion. he is just a persona for them to paste their fancies. sometimes he wants to even ask them directly, cut to the chase, interrogate:

"what do you imagine beneath my mask? what's there when i slip it off when we kiss, when i bed you?"

what is the kakashi they materialize in their heads, the desired version of him? is he fucking them hard through the mattress, is he opening his own legs and begging for it? where is the control found in the puppetry? how is he visualized? manipulated? he wants to ask them, these so-called fans of his:

"how do you warp me to your liking? you _have to_ know you are just imagining things. it's all a work of fiction."

their perception of him, when it all boils down to it, is a power trip. a snare, a trap. its aim to cling onto him, hold him down. to have their way. subdue, submit him. for their own pleasure, they'll picture him in their heads however they wish him to be. he's merely a projection.

kakashi has no say or want to be desired this way. he does not want to _be wanted_. he has not taken anyone to bed and knows he probably never will.

what asuma said before elicits another brittle, dry laugh.

kakashi doesn't think what he does is pitiable. vicariously living off of fantasy, that's what all people do, repackaged as _hopes and dreams_ , to reach out for the horizon of a better future. there’s nothing wrong with kakashi pulling the wool off of his eyes, calling it what it is. he’s making his life easier by not complicating matters. keeping the worlds separate.

when you imagine, there is no real. because there is no real, there is no risk. there is no danger of leaving someone to grieve over him. what, again, is _real?_ can anyone answer him why he would want such expectations placed upon him like a noose to neck?

kurenai and asuma are probably together tonight. yes, they are probably _together tonight_. brave and foolish to let their fantasy manifest while knowing that it'll be cruelly ripped apart. have they wanted their dreams to come true like this? do they know what they have to do, will have to pay when reality finally catches up to them, knife in hand?

how can you even fathom to do that when your soul is on loan? when the other's is as well? no one can truly belong to each other, not with these lives they've _chosen_ to take as soldiers.

then this charade of normalcy, it's all an elevated fantasy, a perfect genjutsu. kakashi's logic is foolproof. asuma has no place to ask, argue. this conclusion makes kakashi smirk; flash freezes the rolling waves cascading in his doubting head and tempting thoughts. his heart is locked and cold.

asuma speaks of "real" but he doesn't know anything. he is a hypocrite. a fool.

_but isn't kakashi the same?_

the ice has a crack. the waters are warming. kakashi breathes in slowly through the fine mist, his lungs fill gently with the calm air.

imagined sunlight spread dollops of cream yellow onto treetops, peeks in patches amongst the leafy vert. spring's thaw trickles the last of winter's cold into the budding earth and the greens start to bloom. metamorphose into whites, golds, and pinks.

(they are both there in it, this soft little world.)

“don’t. you shouldn’t remember," kakashi mutters to himself but his exhausted eyes squeeze down shut. to prevent the image from entering. or to confine it under the thin safeguard of his eyelids. he has been doing this for the past ten years since he was eighteen. he is twenty-eight now.

kakashi once heard if you are attracted to someone for more than a month, it is a crush. if you crush on someone for more than four months, it is the beginning of something more. if you held onto this feeling for more than two years, it is supposedly true. it's worth mentioning that kakashi also does not believe in this fucking stupid garbage.

based on that, what do you call a ten-year fascination? a fifteen-year one? a twenty-three one?

you call it obsession. you call it limerence.

_you call it what it is — pathetic._

the heat in his face shrivels and shrinks onto itself until it dies like an arachnid's legs falling onto its lifeless body. kakashi's smirk is lopsided. he’s more disgusted than amused with himself.

he tries not to remember the scene. wants to leave it unfinished like a work in progress, like polaroids needing to develop and mature. but every time his mind fights, he loses. kakashi ends up seeing another glance of that dream. like a lens zooming in with each look, further and further he wanders into that dreaming wood.

his nose tickles, full with smells of the wheatgrass, spring fresh and just as sweet, mixing in with sweat and river water. he blinks, and he is so, so close. he can feel heat emanating from a body not his own. closer and closer he falls into place, his mind and imagination twined and stitched.

he sees his fingertips tremble over the shell of an ear, the tan skin soft there, the hair silk, dark and unlike his, dark and easy to lose himself in it, dark like eyes which crinkle when they smile. two delicate crescent moons on a sunlit face tug at something yearning inside him.

and this yearning starts from within his mouth, rings in his teeth. he rushes to kiss because he cannot hold it back anymore. every rational notion speaks, but the ringing is too loud, and kakashi too obstinate. the warnings deafen over the rustle of his mask pulling down, to the loud surprised gasp from both men when bare lips meet dry, wet.

and he is so cruel, and he is so mean and reckless, kakashi bites when he kisses — but it’s apparently good, seemingly he is enough because the body beneath shivers and makes melted sounds which must be delight. arches and stretches a muscled neck, so pretty that kakashi leans in to mar it with the sharp tease of teeth and tongue.

it is a sun haloed by greenery and fine flowers, a divine body laying over his vest, his clothes, everything kakashi's (please, _be kakashi's_ ), the fantasy radiates laughter. the absolute joy in the voice drizzles honey-warmth for kakashi to taste at a point in the neck, the collarbone, down to the chest, the heart there, lower, the stomach, lower still. he breathes, hot. and yes, he is inexperienced, but also yes, he’s thought of this, waited. imagined. wanted. waited.

“tell me, did you ever think about this too? how long have you—" he says winded, stuttering; an idiot.

kakashi rises on his elbows, looks down at the shining glint in blown pupils visible among brown irises, the relaxed smile, how both eyes and mouth illuminate this face whenever they grin in tandem together. kakashi's heart basks in this light, and he knows his stare has gone soft. how can it not when his thoughts have conjured such a portrait. black hair fanned around like petals, brows drawing together, long lashes dampened, skin glowing with sweat. a scarred thumb strokes across kakashi's own face, over the mole scant off his mouth.

then comes that retort, sunfire bright and burning, “kiss me again and i'll tell you.”

kakashi can't leave that challenge unanswered. he surges and kisses those lips, full of adoration and obsession. he licks into the sweet, surprise-parted mouth and groans when the man beneath him shivers in that particularly gorgeous way that rumbles into kakashi's core. makes it stir and want more.

between fast presses of lips, he laughs because they are both so stupid, so stubborn, so into each other it drives him mad that he never said anything for so long. so he lifts onto his arms, comes up to cover the writhing body pinned under his, cradle the beautiful face loose and lovely with pleasure. he loves this expression. loves this perfectly unburdened mouth, slack, panting. body twisting into touch and taste. spread. tempting. tempting with calling out his name. and —

_and that’s it, stop yourself._

and kakashi does before he unwisely utters the name in his head that'll ground this immaterial into the material. his eyes snap open to the stippled ceiling. he pants and keeps his sight wide and alert even though he aches to blink. he only shutters his vision after he knows the heatwave has passed, when he is certain there is no ghostly afterimage.

he breathes out, finally slow. sits up. lifts up the covers. he is not aroused. or sad. if anything, he’s tired and angry. he goes to the washroom. splashes water on his face but it's still hot and feverish.

_you really are no different._

he towels off the water. sweat still sticks uncomfortably around his neck. it feels too tight, the collar on his shirt. he wants to rip it off. he won't. he wants a lot of things but he won't act on them.

instead he scowls in the washroom mirror, next turns away from his despicable reflection. returns to bed. grabs his book. flips through the pages, exchanging the names in his thoughts. he irritatedly snorts, trying to ground himself back into the reality of enjoying fiction.

what a stupid thing to remember, a dream he had when he was younger. a dream that he was irresponsible enough to want. a dream that he is scared to do anything about.

a dream which he'll hold onto. let the fantasy hold onto him. and he will revere it, idealized and committed, because this is the closest thing he'll let himself love.

yes, he really is no different.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading this story. it's more experimental, and it's based off of something i wrote a while back. my writing partner and i might expand this to a bigger work of loosely connected vignettes to study and explore characters and their sexual developments and dynamics if people are interested. thank you for taking a chance on this fic! - lapi


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